sirens in the beat of your heart
by KarmaHope
Summary: When Maka meets a mysterious man at the bar while pulling a heist during a fancy party at Lord Death's manor, it's not that she doesn't think twice about it. In fact, she thinks a lot about it. When she gets into the wrong car that night, what she doesn't think about is running away with said mysterious man and leaving everything behind. Alas, nothing good starts in a getaway car.


**sirens in the beat of your heart  
**_KarmaHope_**  
**

The glitz and the glamour of gilded ballrooms and reception halls never fails to floor her.

Silky smooth fabric swishes at Maka's ankles. Her toes ache from the strappy black heels she shoved her feet into hours ago, but the pain is a small price to pay for the opportunity to immerse herself in the opulent wonderland of tonight's soirée.

She idly swirls the flute of champagne she holds in a delicately gloved hand as she surveys the room. She recognizes some of the guests, but she's safe in the confidence that none of them recognize _her_. Taking a sip from her mostly-full glass, she picks out the hosts.

Mortimer Kidd and his son, Mortimer Kidd Jr, are rather notorious in the business world. As weapons manufacturers, the elder embraces the moniker the media bestows upon him, 'Lord Death,' while the younger simply goes by 'Kidd.' They stand off to the side of the ballroom, engaged in what must be a riveting conversation with a pair of businessmen. After nearly seven years on the circuit, Maka knows all too well what it entails: quarterly profits, stocks, _taxes_. She's had the conversation herself more than once, and it gets worse every time.

In any case, the subject at hand is hardly important.

Maka purses red-stained lips and takes another sip of champagne. The edge of the flute comes away clean, having not actually touched her skin. She hesitates a moment, then tosses back the rest of the liquid. One glass of champagne won't cloud her judgement. She's worked flawlessly after far more.

She hands her empty flute off to one of the circling waitstaff dressed in white suits. The man meets her eyes over the tray, and she nods. Subtly, carefully, blink-and-you-miss-it. The waiter moves on. Maka suppresses a shudder.

Seven years, and Giriko still thinks he's her damn handler.

Shaking the lingering unease, Maka schools her face and crosses the ballroom. Couples dance out on the floor, but she's never been one for dancing. She turns away and makes her way to the bar. The champagne was quality, but she needs something harder if she's going to make it through the night with her handlers breathing down her neck.

Maka slides onto an empty barstool. Her feet appreciate the respite.

"Old fashioned, please."

She's only twenty-two, but the old fashioned has been a ritual of sorts since long before she came of age. The bite of the whiskey grounds her amongst the haughty airiness of the company and the champagne. It brings her back to the grungy one-bedroom apartment she used to share with her father, with all the emptied bottles strewn across the floor.

But that was then, and this is now. She doesn't bother to watch the bartender as he prepares her drink, instead turning her attention to the room. Lord Death and his son move on to talk to another businessman. The bandleader announces the last song of their first set. Maka thrums with anticipation.

She did her research before coming out tonight. Armed with the guest list, she familiarized herself with the charity ball's attendees, memorizing them to the point she doesn't have to think twice as she scans the room. For example, the man standing on the edge of the dancefloor is Frank N. Stein, the Kidds' personal doctor. She spots his wife Marie is dancing out on the floor.

Maka looks away to accept her drink. She pulls cash from her clutch purse, enough for the drink as well as a generous tip. She doesn't drink right away, tapping her fingers absently against the glass as she continues to watch the room.

She loses herself in thought, tracing gloved fingers through the condensation beginning to accumulate. _I wish you could see me now, Mama._ _Wearing this fancy dress, at a fancy party? I know this isn't what you wanted for me, but I think you'd be proud._

Maka sighs and takes a sip of her drink, careful not to let her lips touch the rim. She always ends up thinking of her mother on nights like these. She doesn't remember much of the woman, but she remembers her elegance. She remembers her perfume. She remembers the fights.

Something out on the floor catches her eye, and all thoughts of her mother flee at once. There are two women standing together, not far from where she sits at the bar, talking in hushed tones. The taller one casts a furtive glance around the room. Maka turns back to the bar and takes another sip, casual as anything.

She doesn't recognize either of the women from her research on the guest list. They _could _be plus-ones, but judging by the similarities in their features, they're related. Sisters? Cousins? It's unlikely they came separately.

Shit.

The band wraps up their first set, but Maka hardly notices. There's someone else here. Is she too late? Should she make her move sooner than planned? She doesn't want to imagine the earful she'll receive from Giriko if she deviates from the plan.

So she sits, tied up in knots of anxiety with a heightened awareness of the two women behind her. It's quiet – almost _too _quiet – now that the band isn't playing. Surely the bartender can hear her heart beating out of her chest.

"Excuse me–" Maka nearly drops her glass– "Is anyone sitting here?"

Fuck. How did she not notice the man hovering over her shoulder? She glances up to see a man with the palest porcelain skin she's ever seen gesturing at the barstool beside her. Recovering her wits, she swirls the amber liquid and shrugs.

"You are, now. I guess."

He gives her a tight-lipped smile as he takes a seat. She returns it with all insincerity. She doesn't _want_ him here. She wants to sit at this bar and drink her old fashioned and conduct her reconnaissance in peace until halfway through the band's second set.

That said, she doesn't stop herself from casting a glance in his direction as he catches the bartender's attention. It doesn't mean she doesn't notice his platinum blond hair and his eyes, dark against his porcelain skin.

Wait. She recognizes this man.

"You're in the band," she says abruptly, breaking her unspoken vow of silence. "On the piano."

The man blinks at her, thrown, before a corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile. "Yeah," he says. "I'm surprised. No one ever actually pays attention to the band."

Maka shrugs and drains her glass. "I do."

"Sir?"

The man – the pianist – turns to the bartender. He hesitates a moment, then says: "I'll have whatever she's having."

Maka's eyebrows lift. Words tumble from her lips before she can even think of stopping them. "You don't look like a whiskey guy to me."

He glances at her and chuckles. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic she doesn't fail to notice. "Well, you don't look like a whiskey girl, so, uh. It appears I'm in good company?"

It's a suave line delivered so maladroitly it's nearly laughable. Maka rolls her eyes. She doesn't know who this guy is, but his laidback nature sets her at ease. She makes a few quick calculations; weighs the suspicion of the girls behind her and the scrutiny of her heavy-handed handlers against this man's stumbled flirtation.

She sighs.

"Make that two, please."

Maka blinks. "You're buying me a drink? I don't even know your name."

The man gives her that endearing half-smile again. "Who said it was for you?"

He's sharper than she gave him credit for, and something in her treacherous heart flips. She squashes the notion and snorts. "Yeah, like you're gonna get wasted before your second set."

His smile grows, and he holds out his hand for her to shake. "You're right. My name's Evan."

Maka takes it. Through the silken fabric of her gloves, she feels the heat of his palm, and she suppresses a shiver. Through her distraction, she notices he doesn't volunteer a last name.

"Mary," she lies. The name slips off her tongue with practiced ease. She doesn't volunteer a last name, either.

Wait. Evan?

She runs through the names of the members of the band Lord Death hired for this evening. There's no 'Evan' on that list. She casts him a sideways look as she accepts the drink he bought her. She drinks in his smooth, pale skin; his slicked-back platinum hair; his… _unnaturally _dark eyes; his stiff, rigid posture.

Huh. Fancy that.

A smile creeps onto her face. "Cheers," she says, holding up her glass.

Evan startles. "Cheers."

She takes a sip of the whiskey. She watches him watch the motion. She notices him notice the pristine glass. His gaze flicks back to her blood-red lips. She licks away a drop of alcohol. He swallows hard and turns away.

"So," she says, as though unbothered. "Piano?"

"Uh, yeah." Evan takes a swig of his drink and immediately makes a face. "Um. I've been playing since I was little? It's just kind of, y'know. A side gig."

Maka rests her chin in her palm, elbow on the bar. "What's your main gig, then?"

Evan casts her a wry smile. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

She laughs. "That's fair. Don't bother asking me, either."

Evan nods. "Right. Uh… right. Um. Right. Lovely weather we're having?"

* * *

Maka turns down a third drink. Evan might be awkwardly endearing, funny as hell, and attractive as sin, but that doesn't change the fact she's here for a reason and he – no matter how seamlessly he slotted himself into her evening, no matter how much the sparks fly between them – isn't a part of it.

"You're starting your second set soon," she says when he offers. Her excuse is flimsy, but her rueful smile is genuine. She hasn't had this much fun on a job in years.

But this is a job, same as any other.

Maka slides off the barstool, her feet screaming in protest when she puts weight on them once more. She's steady on her feet, though, so everything else falls by the wayside. She should just walk away, but something in Evan's eyes gives her pause. Her attention shifts momentarily to the two women that caught her attention before. They've moved, but not far, and their eyes are on _her_.

They're with Evan, that much is clear. She turns away before they catch onto the fact she's onto them.

"Mary?"

Maka presses her lips to Evan's cheek. It's not much of a kiss, just a press of lips to skin that falls closer to his mouth than she intended. When she pulls away, she doesn't bother to wipe away the smudge of lipstick left behind.

"I'm really sorry," she murmurs.

"A-About what?"

She simply shrugs and walks away, disappearing into the crowd. He'll know soon enough.

When she's far enough away, she turns back to see him searching the room. She curses herself for her moment of weakness. It isn't supposed to go this way. She gets in, she gets out, and she's done. They get paid, they find the next shindig, rinse, and repeat.

There's a certain science to it.

She meets Giriko's eyes. She ignores the fire within them.

She should've said no to the drink.

She wants _out_.

The band begins its second set, and Maka breathes easier knowing Evan won't be coming after her, trapped behind the keyboard as he is. A frisson of disappointment runs through her, but she shakes it off. It's time to put everything in motion.

Evan and his friends just made things much easier for her.

"Um, excuse me," she says, approaching one of the security officers. She totters on her heels, looking every part like just another one of the frazzled, elite women at this soirée.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Yes. I, uh. I overheard a couple women talking, and it sounded, um, really suspicious? Like they were– gosh, I don't know! Looking for something? Here? It sounded like something out of one of those movies–"

The security officer's face grows darker with each word that spills past her lips. "Ma'am, could you point me to the women, please? If there's anything suspect going on, we'll take care of it. Don't worry your little heart."

It takes all of Maka's self-restraint to keep from glaring. What a condescending asshole! Then again, when one considers the company he deals with…

She points him to Evan's friends. He crosses the room to talk with them, and Maka doesn't have to wait long for him to call for backup. If _she _was able to determine these women weren't on the guest list, they won't be able to fool security, either.

The room falls silent as the attendees realize something's happening, then explodes into chatter. Maka takes advantage of the chaos and distracted security detail to dart out of the ballroom into a side corridor.

When she began, she would take off her shoes as soon as she was out of the ballroom so they wouldn't trip her up. Seven years' practice since means she no longer has to do so. Her toes may hurt, but she moves in the strappy heels as easily as she might in bare feet. The heels have been sueded, so they don't even clack on the hardwood floors.

That doesn't stop her from freezing on the stairs when a couple servants pass beneath.

She needn't have worried. The two women continue on their way without thinking to look up, engrossed in their gossip. She breathes a silent sigh of relief.

Maka makes it up two more floors without getting caught. Her black dress makes it easy to fade into shadows, and most activity in the house is concentrated in the ballroom. She doesn't worry about the security cameras. If all went well, Noah put the video feed on loop at the beginning of the band's second set.

She won't get caught. She's never gotten caught– she's just that good. When she broke into the circuit eight years ago, crews from all over the country fought to obtain her and her skills. The daughter of the legendary 'Goddess' and the man who eventually brought her in was a prize to be won.

Maka refused to be a prize.

She picked a smaller crew, closer to home. It wasn't the best crew – still isn't – but it allows her to visit home often. What the circuit _doesn't_ know is that Kami Albarn high-tailed it back to her native Japan seven years ago and the indomitable Spirit Albarn fell to pieces in her absence, leaving his young daughter to fend for them both.

Creeping around the last corner, Maka pushes the thoughts of her family from her mind. She has a job to do. She has a job to do _well_. Lord Death has been taking payoffs, though for what reason, she doesn't know. It doesn't matter. What matters is the case full of cash she knows will be in his office.

The coast is clear. Crouching before the office door, Maka pulls a couple lockpicks from the slim pouch on her upper thigh and sets to unlocking the door with fervor. Her gloves make things difficult, and she drops the pins a couple times, but it isn't long before the bolt slides back with a satisfying _snick_.

She pushes the door open with a grin. Seven years, and she still feels the thrill of a successful break. It's a heady rush, but she can't grow complacent.

This room is as ornate as the rest of the manor, but it's subtle and muted. The desk is a dark, rich mahogany, mirrored in both the trim and the bookshelves in stark contrast to the pale, sky blue walls.

Maka isn't here for the interior décor. She's here for the money, and she knows it's in the safe behind the ostentatiously large mirror. She's used to seeing large paintings in offices like these, even paintings of the one who uses the desk, but a mirror?

_That's a bit… narcissistic,_ Maka muses, pushing it aside all the same. It's heavier than paintings usually are. _But if Lord Death was truly narcissistic, wouldn't he have the mirror in _front _of his desk?_

This safe is one of the more complicated ones she's come across in her career, if one could call it that. It would probably stump anyone else, but she's been cracking safes since her little toddler brain could figure out what was going on.

There's no one – _no one_ – her age who has more experience than she does.

And it pays off. The lock clicks rather anticlimactically. Maka pries the door open with bated breath, and– Yes! The briefcase is there! It's almost too perfect, and suspicion begins to arise. It wouldn't be the first time her crew had been baited into a trap.

But it's also probably not the last.

Maka snatches the briefcase and re-locks the safe, careful to set the dial exactly where it was before she began messing with it. She takes a deep breath. Part one: accomplished. Now it's time for part two, which is – arguably – both the harder and the more important part of the two.

She crosses the room and opens the large window, leaning out into the crisp evening air. She's three stories up, but even from here, she can hear echoes of the party below. The party she should be getting back to soon. Those two women aren't going to distract security forever.

Untying a length of string from her other thigh, Maka attaches one end to the briefcase handle. Carefully looping it over her gloved hands, she lets the briefcase down the side of the building. She keeps it just out of view of the windows below, the weird angle causing her back to ache. Her arms burn.

Then it's on the ground. Maka lets go of the string, and it slithers out of her hands. Time to go.

She leaves no trace of herself in Lord Death's unusual office; she even locks the door behind her. The trip back downstairs is just as nerve-racking as the trip up, and she's nearly caught a couple times. When she finally makes it back down to the first floor, she heaves a sigh of relief.

"Ma'am? Can I help you?"

_Shit._ She grew complacent.

Lingering traces of the second drink Evan bought her still course through her system, and she leans into them as hard as she's been fighting them up to this point. She embraces the dizzying looseness, turns to the security officer with the most vapid expression she can muster plastered on her face, and lies.

"I jus'– _really_ need the restroom." She affects a slur, adding a little wobble for effect. It's not hard, in these heels. "Lady reasons, y'know? I know we were told where they were but I–" a hiccough and a twitter– "Heavens, I think I'm a little lost."

The security officer sighs. "Come on, miss. I'll escort you to the restrooms. Perhaps you should lay off the champagne for the night?"

Maka giggles. "Tha's wha– _hic_– what my husband said!"

It rolls off her tongue wrong, curdling her stomach. Unfortunately, this is hardly the first time she's done this particular song and dance, and she knows mentioning a husband is the fastest way to become invisible.

The security guard walks her to the restroom, which – conveniently – is closer to the exit than she was before. She takes the opportunity to relieve herself and realizes, as one does in the restroom, that she's still feeling the alcohol more than she intended to. She really shouldn't have had that second drink Evan bought her. As right as it felt in the moment, she's regretting it now.

She washes her hands in one of the ornate basins, her reflection staring back at her from the flawless mirror. She looks like she belongs here, with her sleek black dress and her ashy blonde hair twisted into an elegant updo. Delicate pearls dangle from her earlobes and her neck, accentuating her slender figure.

It's a delicate style, a far cry from the school uniform she used to wear every day when they didn't have enough money to buy the uniform _and _new clothes. She was bullied relentlessly in middle and high school. That is, until she graduated early and got out.

She shakes herself from her reverie. Speaking of _getting out_, that's what she needs to be doing now, not staring down her reflection while tipsy in the bathroom of the mansion she's in the middle of robbing. She takes one last moment to question her life decisions, then pulls together and pushes forward.

Maka keeps to the edges of the main floor as she picks her way through as casually as possible. Nobody takes notice of her; most of the room's attention is on Lord Death and his son in the middle of the floor, where they talk with the blonde women Maka framed earlier. She can't hear what's being said, and security stands by hesitantly, but the expressions on the women's faces range between shocked and stunned.

She doesn't stick around to find out why. Catching a glimpse of Giriko and Noah scanning the room, she ducks her head and walks a smidge faster.

Part of her expects to run into Evan on her way out the door. When she doesn't, she can't explain the sinking feeling in her chest as she smiles tightly and nods to the doorman. Maybe she was wrong. She darts behind the shrubbery and makes her way around the corner of the building. There was something about Evan that seemed a little bit… _off._ There was something about Evan that had her thinking he was here tonight for the same reason she was. There was something about Evan that gave her hope of finally escaping the clutches of her crew.

Maybe that was just the whiskey talking.

It doesn't matter, except for the fact it kind of _does_. Justin is waiting for her just down the street. Without an alternative, she'll get in his car and he'll take her back to their motel room, where they'll wait for Giriko and Noah to return later that night after the waitstaff are dismissed. They'll split the night's haul, Maka will end up with the smallest share, and she'll send most of it back to her father.

They'll find a new target.

Rinse and repeat.

It's not that she hates the work. She _loves _the work. She just hates her crew.

She finds the briefcase where she left it and picks it up with resigned sigh. Perhaps she's a fool for thinking things might ever be different. She's definitely a fool for letting herself get distracted the way she did tonight. There's no doubt her handlers noticed, and there will be hell to pay for that later. She expects a harsh scolding and an even smaller cut of tonight's spoils.

By the time she makes it back out to the streets, she's rolled her ankle twice on the uneven mulching around the shrubbery. She grits her teeth against the pain and affects an even stride as she strolls away from the mansion. She's reached the point in the night were she can no longer stand the goddamn strappy heels. Relief washes over her at the sight of the car idling on the curb, the red taillights glowing in the night.

Throwing the passenger door open, she tosses the briefcase into the footwell and falls into the seat with a certain lack of grace. She's in the middle of taking off her thrice-damned shoes when she realizes the car isn't moving.

"Justin," she says, sitting up. "Come on, let's– _oh._"

Justin isn't the one at the wheel. Dark eyes stare back at her from beneath platinum hair, and suddenly she can't breathe.

Evan gets over his shock first. "_Mary?_ What the fuck happened to Liz and Patti?"

Liz and Patti? Oh. "They're not coming. I got them caught. I told you I was sorry," she says shortly, without remorse. Anger flashes across Evan's face, and she's quick to reassure him. "They're not in trouble, I don't think. I saw Lord Death and his son talking to them, and they looked surprised, so I don't think they're getting arrested."

"But–"

Maka cuts him off. "Look, does it matter? I have the money. They don't. We gotta go. This _is_ a getaway car, is it not?"

Evan flounders. "It is, but–"

She doesn't hear the rest of his protest. There's a car parked ahead of them, and a familiar silhouette steps out into the streetlight. He turns back to them, and Maka freezes. "_Shit._ Come on, Evan! Go! Go! Go!"

She's bordering on hysteria, but freedom is once again in her grasp and she's not about to let it slip through her fingers again.

"Yeah, all right," Evan mutters, shifting the car into drive. "Hold onto your hat." The engine revs, and then they're pulling away from the curb. Picking up speed, it's not long before they're flying down the road. Justin stares after them, but soon he's but a speck in the distance.

Maka's heart is flying as well.

She heaves a sigh and falls back against the seat. After a moment, she removes her remaining shoe and tosses her bare feet up onto the dashboard. Picking the pins out of her updo, her hair falls loosely around her shoulders. When she dares a glance over, she finds Evan's eyes on her instead of the road. She smiles.

"I knew you were trouble, Mary. Sorry, my ass. You're not sorry." He heaves a sigh, but he smiles back at her. "So. Where's it gonna be? Without Liz and Patti, I don't have anywhere I need to be."

She shrugs. She hadn't thought this far ahead. "I don't know yet. Let's just drive like it's gonna go out of style."

* * *

They drive late into the night. Neither of them speak much. The comfortable silence wraps around them like a warm blanket, and Maka revels in it. On a back road around one o'clock in the morning, Evan rolls down the windows and Maka laughs as her hair dances in the breeze. She sticks her hand out the window and languidly combs her fingers through the cool night air.

Evan drives without direction, occasionally asking her whether they should turn left or right. "Left," Maka says, most of the time. There's something about _left_ that calls to her. An impish grin stretches her lips. Left feels right.

They eventually stop at a twenty-four hour Walmart to purchase the necessities they left behind. The harsh artificial light burns her, and the deserted aisles are more reminiscent of another planet than they are of Earth. Feeling oddly at home in the evening gown hiding her bare feet, she grabs a handful of toiletries and a few changes of clothes and meets Evan back at the entrance.

"Didn't your parents ever warn you about running off with strange men?" he asks. The car doors are both open, and he addresses her over the top. They're the first words he's spoken to her since they agreed to meet back at the front after they made their purchases.

"Sure they did," Maka says fearlessly. "Doesn't mean I ever listened."

He considers her answer. "Fair enough."

It's just past three o'clock in the morning when they pull into the parking lot of a nondescript motel with 'vacancy' lit up in neon. The receptionist is dead asleep, barely stirring at the _ding_ as the door opens. Evan almost wakes him, but Maka makes a quick calculation and cuts him off with a sharp motion across her throat.

They changed out of their evening clothes in the Walmart parking lot. Evan has his platinum hair stuffed up beneath a baseball cap. She took the time to wrap her hair in a headscarf. The security cameras are… _there _and _there._ It's risky, but if the receptionist doesn't remember seeing anyone, and they have no reason to check the footage…

With a finger to her lips at her companion, Maka leans over the desk and nicks one of the keys hanging behind it. _Room 8._

They'll just have to find a way to slip it back onto the rung early in the morning, before whoever makes rounds does so. Either that, or they can drop it on the floor and make it look like an accident.

She turns back to the exit to find Evan staring at her, an unreadable – albeit slightly stunned – expression plastered across his face. She rolls her eyes. The man is literally a getaway driver. They just pulled off a heist at an elegant mansion, and he's shocked by her nicking a motel key? Maka thinks he needs to get his priorities straight.

"Come on," she hisses.

The door _dings_ again. The man slumbers on. They get away clean.

Maka doesn't speak again until the door to Room 8 is locked behind them. Evan is still looking at her oddly.

"What?" she asks. "It's easier this way. They won't have record of us checking in, and that gives us another day's head start on anyone that might come after us."

"That was bad_ass_," Evan marvels. Seemingly realizing what he said, he collects himself and clears his throat. "I mean, uh. Yeah, Liz and Patti have done that a few times. One of them acts as a distraction while one steals the key and–" He cuts off. "Yeah."

Maka sighs. Things were so easy at the bar and on the road, but the tension settling between them is anything but. The easy flirtation is gone. Evan is attractive, sure, but there's a difference between 'attractive stranger at a bar whom I'll never see again' and… whatever _this _is. She thought she was out of the woods, but maybe she's only just entering them.

"I'll drive in the morning," she offers, tossing the Walmart bag with her essentials onto the bed.

"Sounds good. You can take the bathroom first."

Maka grabs the toothbrush and toothpaste from her bag. "Thanks."

She readies for bed quickly in the dingy little bathroom and hands it off to Evan. With a heavy sigh, she falls back onto the bed and winces as a spring digs into her back. She takes a moment to breathe, then sits up and digs the makeup remover out of the Walmart bag. She's in the middle of wiping her face when Evan walks out of the bathroom.

She grins up at him. He grins back, unguarded, and… oh. Oh, _fuck_.

"Oh, fuck. You're _Solomon Evans,_" she blurts. White hair, red eyes, spiky teeth. There's no way she could forget that face, not after it spent most of the year plastered over the news a few years ago. The younger son of one of America's most elite families, gone missing. Eventually, he'd been presumed dead.

The man before her is most certainly _not _dead.

Evan's – _Solomon's_ – face shutters, his lips closing tightly over his giveaway teeth. His unnaturally dark eyes are gone, replaced by unmistakable sanguine ones. The contact case clasped in his hands is a clear explanation in and of itself.

"S- Sorry," Maka says. "I, uh. I won't tell anyone."

"I… didn't think you would," Solomon admits, sitting on the other side of the bed. She feels the mattress shift beneath her. He heaves a sigh. "I just wanted to get away, I dunno. I Had a skillset that was a good match for this kinda thing. I've always been good with keyboards."

"Family is hard," Maka agrees, lost for anything else to say. She hesitates only a moment. "Maka. I'm Maka Albarn. This kinda thing runs in my family."

Solomon's lips twitch into a small smile. He extends his hand to her. "I'm glad I met you, Maka Albarn. Call me Soul."

_Soul_. It suits him, far more than a stuffy old name like _Solomon._ It's almost worse than Mortimer! She takes his hand with a grin and shakes it firmly. "I'm glad I met you, too."

They sleep quickly that night, unheedful of the fact there are only inches separating them.

It's the beginning of a beautiful partnership.

* * *

And so it goes.

"I'm just saying," Soul says conversationally as he leans against the driver's-side passenger door, flashlight in hand. "There were easier places to ditch the car."

"Probably," Maka agrees, matching his tone. She's in the driver's seat, wrists deep in the car's innards, seeking the wires that will allow her to hotwire the thing and get them going again. "But it's been quiet lately, and who's gonna look for a stolen car in the middle of a used car lot?"

Soul grumbles. "Only, like, everyone."

"Chill out. I've done this loads of times… aha!" The car rumbles beneath her, and they're in business. "I'll pull out of here. You get the dud and park it in this space. We'll move the sign over and it _should_ be a while before anyone notices."

This isn't the first time they've switched cars. It isn't even the second time. It's been weeks since they pulled away from Lord Death's gala together, and they've been the best weeks Maka's had since her mother left all those years ago. She doesn't mind the tight quarters or the fact they're nearly living out of each other's pockets when it's the first taste of _freedom_ she's had since she started in this business.

In the dead of night, they make the change. The only light is that of the single flashlight Soul holds; they've killed the headlights on both the cars to avoid attracting attention. When their old car is parked snugly in its place, Soul moves the 'for sale' sign onto its windshield before climbing into the new car. Tearing away from the used car lot, victorious, Make grins exuberantly at the man beside her.

"Eyes on the road." He chides her gently. Through the dark, she can see he's smiling too.

They drive through the day, determined to put as much distance between them and the old car as possible. When Maka begins to nod off sometime after daybreak, Soul takes over driving while she catches a nap. The fact she can sleep in the car beside this man who, for all intents and purposes, is still little more than a stranger, is amazing.

There's just something about him that she _trusts_, and that's dangerous. She knows it's dangerous, but she's just as dangerous, if not more so. He has no more reason to trust her than she does him, and yet he does.

They drive until sunset, the tires of their stolen car chewing up the road that flies beneath them. It's amazing how much of the United States looks the same… until it doesn't. That said, there are some things that never change. Maka pulls off into a Denny's parking lot as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

"Denny's?" Soul asks incredulously. "Really?"

"What, you're too good for Denny's?" Maka rolls her eyes and cuts the ignition. "Nobody's too good for Denny's, Mr. Aristocrat."

Soul pouts. "I resent that remark."

"Speak now or forever hold your peace," she says. When Soul doesn't say anything, she nods. "Come on, I'm hungry." The drive-through McDonald's they ate on the run earlier didn't stick with her.

The restaurant is crowded, but it doesn't take long to be seated. Maka slides into one side of the booth, and Soul takes the place across from her. Silence falls between them as they peruse the menu, but it's a comfortable silence. It's the kind of silence that betrays the fact that neither has anywhere else they would rather be in that moment.

"I want a milkshake," Maka eventually declares.

Soul laughs. "Are you gonna eat actual food, too?"

"No, Soul, I'm starving. Of course I'm not going to eat actual food."

"Right. Just checking."

Maka ends up ordering an omelet with her milkshake. Soul makes a face of disgust and orders a burger and fries. The waitress takes their menus, and then it's just them.

Her eyes skitter over Soul's features as he rearranges the pot of sugar packets. He has those dark contacts in, as he always does outside of whatever dingy motel room they crash in for the night. She finds herself wishing she could see their true color, that vibrant red that was so unnerving at first but had quickly become a familiar comfort.

Her initial attraction to the man hasn't faded over the weeks of actually knowing him. If anything, it's grown stronger despite her best efforts to quash it. She knows she can't afford to get caught up with someone. She has to look out for herself first and foremost, as she's done since her mother left all those years ago.

Still… there's something appealing in the idea of having someone else. Of not being alone. She's not alone with him here, but for all she's grateful for the fact he got her out, she's not sure why he's stuck around this long.

Everything considered, she's not sure why she has.

"So, I've been thinking." Soul's voice jolts her out of her trance, and she hopes her blush isn't obvious.

"Yeah?" she asks. "That's new."

"Fuck off," Soul throws back. "I've been _thinking _that we should take on a new job. It's been long enough that the brouhaha over the Death Manor incident has mostly blown over, and we're far enough away that it won't look connected."

Maka's eyebrows lift. She would be lying if she said she hasn't thought about it, but the amount of planning required for a heist is too much for just two people, especially since she doesn't have the same connections the rest of her old crew had. Well… she does, but they'd sell her out to Giriko in an instant. She refuses to go back.

If Soul is suggesting it though… "Do you have a plan?"

Soul shrugs a shoulder. "Not exactly," he admits, "but if I can get access to a computer, I can figure something out pretty quickly."

Maka can feel the smile beginning to stretch across her face as the realization dawns. "You were the tech guy _and_ the getaway driver."

"And the musician," Soul reminds her. "But… yeah. As I said, I've always just been good with keyboards."

"I don't really see any relation between a piano keyboard and a computer keyboard."

"There really isn't one," Soul says, "but it's an impressive line, so I like to say it."

"Do you usually impress people with it?"

"Not… really. I don't get to use it very often, actually."

Maka rolls her eyes and looks out the window. The sun has nearly slipped beyond the horizon, the inky blackness of night settling in to stay a while. Pinpricks of starlight gaze back at her. Was it really only last night that they'd ditched the car? Was it really that long ago? She's beginning to lose track of time, carrying on the way they are. It's a blissful ignorance; she wonders when reality will come knocking again.

The waitress returns with their food, and they eat in muted silence. Maka wonders, not for the first time, what brought Soul here. Not to this diner – she was there for that – but to this life, to this career. She thinks if she grew up in a cushy life, born to rich parents, she wouldn't want to give that up for anything.

"Um." Soul breaks the silence. "Can I ask you a question?"

Maka gives him a skeptical look. "Depends on what the question is."

"Yeah, that's fair," he hedges. "I just– You said this kinda thing runs in your family. What did you mean by that?"

Maka sets her fork down. It clinks gently against the plate. He remembered her saying that? An offhanded comment from weeks ago? Has he been… paying attention… as well?

She sighs. "I meant what I said. My mother was well-known in the circuit– used the codename 'Goddess.' My father was the detective that eventually brought her in. Somewhere along the line, they fell in love. Decided to get married for some asinine reason. Had me. Then Mama realized the domestic life wasn't for her and fucked off back to Japan, leaving Papa distraught and utterly incapable of caring for me."

Aw, shit. She doesn't mean to say that much, but with Soul's steady eyes upon her, it all comes spilling out. Considering she's gotten this far, she figures she might as well finish the story.

"Papa turned to alcohol and women. He lost his job. He took up gambling. Racked up a hell of a debt. So I joined the circuit, told everyone I was the Goddess's daughter, and got snapped up by Giriko and his crew."

Soul makes a face. "Who are the ones you were so desperate to get away from that night," he surmises.

Maka shrugs. "I never said they were a good crew. They were pretty awful, actually. They did everything they could to take advantage of a naïve fifteen-year-old, but they were based close to home so I could still visit Papa."

"And pay off his debt."

"And pay off his debt," Maka agrees.

"Is it paid?"

She sighs. "Not yet. I get closer with every job, but I still need a lot more."

"So we take a new job," Soul says pointedly. "We get you your money, and then we take another."

"What about you? Don't you need the money?"

Soul shrugs. "Not really. My family just had way too many expectations for me. They were stifling and cold, and my older brother was their favorite. I just wanted out, wanted to do something different. Fun. Cool. I ran away, and then I found a Craigslist ad looking for someone good with computers. That's where I met Liz and Patti, and we've been together ever since."

"Until I kidnapped you."

"Until you kidnapped me."

Maka mulls over this information. "You mean you're just in this for _kicks?_"

"I suppose." Soul won't meet her eyes. "I keep enough of the money to live on, but I usually leave the rest as anonymous donations to people who actually need it."

"A regular Robin Hood." Maka scoffs in disbelief.

Soul shrugs again.

Maka sinks back in the booth. "Okay," she says. "Okay. We do a job. I get my money, you get your kicks, and we see how it goes. If it goes well, we'll do another. If not, we'll go our separate ways. Deal?"

"Deal."

It's hard to ignore the heat of his palm as they shake on it over the table.

* * *

Maka pawned her slinky black dress shortly after the Lord Death job, which unfortunately means she has to go shopping for a new dress. As much as she enjoys wearing the fancy dresses, she hates _shopping _for them. Dress shopping means hours of standing in some kitschy boutique and getting poked and prodded by saleswomen who can never contain their critique of her shape– or rather, lack thereof.

"It's nothing a little padding won't fix," one of the saleswomen assures her. Maka resists the very real urge to slap her.

When she finally steps out of the torture chamber, she has a dress. It's a backless silvery-grey number with a slit up the floor-length skirt to mid-thigh. It's smooth and sexy, sexier than anything else she's worn in her time on the circuit. It's amazing what she's comfortable with without the prospect of Giriko's leering eyes watching after her.

With the prospect of _Soul's _eyes watching after her instead.

She still isn't sure what she wants to do about that whole… situation. She doesn't know how she feels, or even if she _feels _anything. Despite knowing it's a bad idea, there's a part of her that wants to push the situation forward, to provoke _something_ into happening.

So she packs up the dress quietly and waits.

"Arachne and Medusa Gorgon," Soul announces that night when she returns to the motel room. He barely looks up from the outdated computer they bought off Craigslist a few days before.

"Who?"

"They're sisters who are a pretty big deal in the fashion industry, apparently. They're holding a gala next week."

Maka sets the dress down with the rest of her meagre collection of belongings. "They'll probably have some pretty valuable jewelry stashed away somewhere," she muses, crossing the room to read the computer screen over Soul's shoulder. "What do you think? Can we pull it off?"

"I can get the property blueprints and put us on the guest list," Soul says, his fingers flying across the keys. "I can't hack into the security from here, but I'll be able to if I'm on the same network. If you can get in and get out, we'll be golden."

Maka grins. "Getting in and getting out is my specialty."

"In that case, we'll be good to go."

Excitement wells in Maka's chest. As much as she hated her old crew, she loved doing the work. There was something thrilling in the heist, in the atmosphere, in the accomplishment. Growing up in a dirty little apartment, it was something straight out of her wildest dreams.

"We'll split fifty-fifty?"

"Twenty-five, seventy-five. I'll take the twenty-five."

They lock eyes, and Maka flushes. It's been weeks, and yet she hasn't grown used to the intensity of his sanguine gaze. She shivers beneath it. Sometimes, she gets the feeling that Soul can see straight through to her– well, soul. It makes her incredibly uncomfortable.

Tension hangs in the air that night, something Maka can't quite identify strung tightly between them. It could simply be anticipation for the heist ahead, but somewhere along the line it gets tangled up with the thoughts and feelings already warring within her. Does Soul feel it? Or is she making a mountain where there's nothing more than a molehill?

She can't jeopardize their partnership for a molehill.

That night, she regrets their innocent decision to continue booking rooms with only one bed. A couple traveling together is much less suspicious, and until recently she didn't think twice about it. They always remain on 'their' sides of the bed. They wake up in the morning and get going immediately. There's nothing suggestive about it, but tonight, she has a hard time falling asleep with him beside her.

_He's right there_, she thinks. _It would be so easy to_–

She cuts herself off before she can finish the thought. She can't afford to entertain even simple fantasies, for Soul is nearly as observant as she is. If she starts acting differently around him, he _will_ notice. She wonders – not for the first time – if she's become too dependent on his presence in the past few weeks.

Maybe… maybe she should get out. If things don't settle by the time they finish the next job, she will. She has to.

Soul shifts beside her. He rolls over in his sleep, and Maka freezes. When he doesn't wake, she risks a glance in his direction. The pale blue moonlight and the red glow cast by the alarm clocks gently illuminate smooth features, much softer in sleep than in the waking hours. Maka's heart pounds in her chest. She swallows back the urge to reach out and run her fingers through his hair. Instead, she turns away resolutely. She closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

She misses the flutter of pale lashes and the settling of a sleepy sanguine gaze.

* * *

Maka isn't used to entering a gala with a partner.

When she worked with Giriko's crew, she usually entered alone while the rest of the crew served as waitstaff. She never really understood the reasoning behind that, but then again, Giriko's crew had been full of ugly motherfuckers who never would've fit in amongst high society.

Soul is not an ugly motherfucker. Maybe things would be easier if he was.

Everything aside, she feels safer for having Soul by her side as she enters the reception hall. She has someone to back her up, and that security gives her a rare confidence in the outcome of the mission. Their car is parked on the property, and Soul's laptop is overriding the security. Soul has remote access through the burner smartphone in the pocket of his suit.

Maka takes a deep breath. At the same time she's glad she has Soul beside her, it worries her. When it's just her, she has only herself to worry about. Tonight, she's overly aware of Soul's presence at her shoulder. It's only her years of experience that keep her focused on the heist itself.

Soul detaches himself from her shoulder and makes his way over to the bar. Maka surveys the crowd. Arachne and Medusa stand at the end of the reception hall, splendiferous in their fashion. She eyes them warily until Soul returns.

"Here," he says, offering her a glass. "Will this help?"

Maka looks from him to the glass, then smiles as she takes it. "Old Fashioned," she murmurs. "You remembered."

"Of course I remembered," Soul says, taking a sip from his own glass. "It's kind of hard to forget."

He casts her a sly smile, and Maka ducks her head. There's no hiding the blush on her cheeks, not with her hair pinned up the way it is. She takes a sip of her drink, careful as ever not to let her lips touch the glass. The familiar warmth settles her.

"So what do you usually _do_ at these things?" Soul asks. "If I'm on the floor, I'm always in the band."

Maka swirls the amber liquid in her glass. "I circle the room. Avoid Giriko. Get a drink at the bar." She smirks. "Get hit on by the guy in the band."

"Hey," Soul protests. "That was one time. Right? And I– I wasn't–"

Maka's heart plunges into her stomach as she arches her eyebrows. "You weren't?" She shrugs one shoulder, trying desperately at nonchalance. "Could've fooled me."

Soul doesn't respond. _That's a good thing_, she tells herself. _I didn't want this in the first place. At least now I know._

She nods perfunctorily. "I'm going to circle the room, find our alternative escape routes. We'll meet back here in fifteen."

"Mary, wait–"

But she doesn't wait. She knocks back the rest of her whiskey and leaves the glass with one of the circling waitstaff. Away from Soul, perhaps she can clear her head a little. She can't believe she almost gave herself up like that. Her old crew _never _knew what she was feeling. Emotions are a weakness in this line of work, and she's a professional.

Soul doesn't follow her, thankfully, although she can feel his gaze from across the room. She finds the two alternative exits they spotted on the blueprints and snags a couple hors d'oeuvres from the buffet table. Not ten minutes later, she returns to the spot she left Soul. He hasn't moved.

"Little sausage thing?" she asks, holding one of the hors d'oeuvres out to him.

"I'm… not hungry."

"Oh."

Maka isn't either, really, not after that response. She's left holding the two sausage bites in her hands like an idiot. Again, she wonders if Soul can feel this tension or if it's all in her head. She doesn't actually know which answer she prefers.

She takes a sullen bite of a hors d'oeuvre. It sits like lead in her stomach.

Soul watches. She can feel his eyes upon her, but she won't give him the satisfaction of looking his way. She eats the second sausage bite instead.

"Do you ever dance at these things?"

Maka nearly chokes. Clearing her airways, she makes the mistake of glancing over. Soul's face is stuck somewhere between concern and amusement. She nearly melts at the sight. He really is gorgeous. "No," she says, straightening. "Never."

"Why not?"

She sighs and rolls her eyes. "I don't dance. Besides, I can't let anyone get close enough to actually see my face."

"You don't dance? Or you've never tried?" Soul asks, a twinkle in his eye.

Maka doesn't like that look. "Does it matter?"

"Sure it does. Come on." Soul clasps her wrist and gently tugs her toward the dance floor. "We have some time to kill, and I haven't danced in years."

"I just said I don't dance," Maka says, but it's a halfhearted complaint. She follows him without much resistance. She kind of hates herself for it.

"And I just said I haven't danced in years." They're on the edge of the dance floor now, and Soul places one of her hands on his shoulder. He takes her other hand in his. "We'll figure it out together. Just follow my lead."

"Okay."

Soul's warmth is overwhelming. She hasn't been this close to him since that first night at Lord Death's manor. Even in sleep, they keep a good few inches between them. There's no space between them now. She smells the spice of his cologne, feels the fine fabric of the suit he's wearing tonight. She wants to press closer, to take full advantage of the comfort of his embrace, but her heart is in her throat. She knows she's unnaturally stiff against him.

He wasn't hitting on her that night.

"Maka?" He speaks her name so softly into her ear, his breath ruffling the wisps of hair escaping her updo. "Relax."

She snorts. "Easy for you to say," she murmurs into his shoulder. "You've done this before."

_You weren't hitting on me that night._

"But I've never done this with you." He leads her into a clumsy turn and pulls her back. "That has to count for something, right?"

Maka shakes her head. "Stop," she says. "Just stop it."

"Stop what?"

She'd push him if it wouldn't call attention to them. "That!" she hisses. "You tell me one minute you weren't hitting on me, then you go and say things like that! It– it's… confusing. I don't like it."

She fully expects Soul to let her go, but if anything, he holds her tighter. They dance in silence for the entire next song, but it's a faster number. Maka has to put all her focus toward keeping her steps and not tripping over her own feet.

"Which part don't you like?" Soul asks once the music slows down again. "The confusing part? Or the… the…"

Maka sighs. She's already fucked up her resolve, she might as well bust it wide open. "I don't like being confused, and I've been… confused… for a while."

"Oh." A wide grin creeps across Soul's face, though he's careful not to show too much of his teeth. "Cool."

"Cool?"

"I didn't wanna assume anything, y'know?"

"So you _were _hitting on me? But you said–"

Soul makes a face. "I was afraid of scaring you off. And I wasn't hitting on you, I was flirting _with_ you."

Maka rolls her eyes. "It's the same thing, dumbass."

"It's really not."

Maka shakes her head. Of course, now that they're _here,_ now that they've acknowledged this _thing_, she doesn't know what to do. Thankfully, she's saved from having to figure it out immediately. The music peters out, and one of the sisters – Arachne, she thinks – begins a speech.

"This is our cue," she hisses to Soul as they walk off the dance floor with the other guests. "I'm going to run to the bathroom. You get out and do what you have to do."

"Got it," Soul says. "Oh, and Ma– Mary?"

Maka turns back. Soul leans in and presses his lips to hers. It's nothing more than gentle pressure, and then he's gone. Maka blinks, stunned. "Wha–"

"You know. For, uh. For luck?"

She grins. "Get out of here. I'll see you later."

* * *

It isn't long before she regrets the plan they came up with. It's not that it's a bad plan. It's actually a very good plan. Unfortunately, after she gets to the bathroom and dons her earpiece in the privacy of one of the stalls, Soul's voice is constantly in her ear.

It sends shivers run down her spine.

Apart from that, the Gorgon job runs far smoother than she expects it to. Her feet ache in her unbroken shoes, exacerbated by the dancing she doesn't usually do, but she pushes the pain aside as she sneaks into the two bedrooms. She snatches the jewels and stuffs them into the padding around her bust. Soul monitors the cameras, talking her around security as she navigates through the halls.

Then she's out. It takes all of her self-control to keep from running to the car, to keep from running to Soul. Well, that and the fact she knows she'd probably break an ankle if she tried. Once she's actually in the car, all bets are off.

Maka doesn't bother with words. Before she's even seated, she reaches for Soul and crashes her lips down on his. This is nothing like the kiss they shared in the reception hall. It's all lips and tongue and adrenaline-fueled passion and Maka has to force herself to pull away. They're sitting in their getaway car, and they need to leave before someone realizes what's happened.

"Drive," she says, breathless.

Soul drives.

All their possessions are loaded in the back, and they're home free. Maka pulls her hair out of its updo as they drive. With the windows down, it whips freely in the night air. Free as a bird and light as a feather, Maka loses track of time as they drive. Somewhere along the line, Soul takes her hand in his, an anchor in the expanse.

They pull into a motel parking lot around two o'clock in the morning. They haven't changed out of their formalwear, and Maka's dress is much more recognizable than Soul's generic suit, so Soul checks them in while Maka reluctantly puts her shoes back on.

"We're on our way home from a friend's wedding," Soul explains when he returns. "You've had too much to drink and feel pretty bad, so we're stopping for the night."

Maka nods. "Sounds good."

Ah. Right. Now she actually needs to put _weight _on her feet, which feel worse going back into her shoes than they did coming out of them. She grits her teeth as she stands–

"Soul!"

–and she's swept off her feet.

Maka relaxes into the princess carry, tucking in closer to Soul's chest as he slams the car door closed with his knee. Part of her wants to protest, to insist that she can walk on her own, but this is… _nice._ She can't remember the last time someone carried her like this. It was probably her dad, and she was probably eight years old.

So she lets Soul carry her across the parking lot and into the motel room. If nothing else, it sells the story that she was way too drunk to check in at the front desk. Right?

Soul gently sets her down on the bed, and it's only now that everything begins to sink in. She kissed this man. Twice. Well, she supposes he kissed her the first time, but that's just semantics. She glances up into dark eyes, and the emotion contained within them sends shivers down her spine.

"Here," he says, kneeling before her. "Allow me."

His hands are hot around her ankles as he ever so carefully slides her wretched shoes off her feet. She shudders beneath his touch, heat pooling deep within her. Her eyes flutter shut and she takes a deep breath.

"Are okay?" Soul asks. "Did I hurt you?"

The raspiness in his voice tells her he's not unaffected. "I'm more than okay," she assures him.

She knows this is a bad idea. She shouldn't– she really shouldn't– but damn, does she want to. She realizes then and there that she's tired of denying herself the things she wants. Everything she's done in the last eight years has been for her father, or for Giriko and his crew, or for her own damn survival. Fuck that! Running away with Soul was the first time she'd done something for _herself_, and right now?

She's doing this for herself, too.

A little belatedly, she realizes Soul is still kneeling before her, wary eyes upon hers. She reaches for him and pulls him up to her level. His lands on either side of her, supporting his weight against the edge of the mattress. His face hovers inches from hers, and she's ready for it. Her hands find purchase in his shock of platinum hair.

Unable to stop herself, she cracks a grin. "Hey."

He grins right back at her. "Hey."

His gaze flits down to her lips. She pulls him in, and it's the moment she knows.

She's in love.

* * *

Well… shit.

Maka lies in the dark, the sheets falling around her body in a manner reminiscent of the way her dress did earlier that evening. Soul breathes steadily beside her, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her shoulder with every exhale.

The pale blue moonlight and the red glow cast by the alarm clocks gently illuminate her every mistake.

She can't… she can't do this. She still has her father's debt to contend with, not to mention the repercussions of skipping out on Giriko's crew. She lost sight of that somewhere between her impulsive decision to run away with Soul and the cold awakening such happiness has just given her.

She's in love, but this isn't a love story.

Everything has changed, and Soul doesn't deserve to be dragged into any of her mess. He never did, but in a moment of rare selfishness – in _two _rare moments of selfishness – he was.

And she… she can't have this love. She can't let this continue.

The red glow of the alarm clock heralds the arrival of a new hour. Four o'clock. It would be so easy for her to close her eyes, to roll over into Soul's embrace, but it would only be putting off the inevitable. If she stays, Soul will notice something wrong in the morning. She won't be able to lie, and Soul will try to convince her to stay.

It'll be easier if… if…

Maka eases herself from the bed. The sheets fall away, and she shivers as the chill of the night settles upon her skin. She realizes then that they never brought any of their things in. Everything, save for the clothes they were wearing, is still in the car.

In a way, that makes things easier.

Tiptoeing through the room, she grabs her underwear and the dress– the dress she bought only for Soul to take off. Swallowing tears, she haphazardly wiggles back into it. The Gorgons' jewels are still nestled securely in the padding. After a moment's hesitation, she grabs Soul's suitjacket and slings it over her bare shoulders. She picks up her stockings. She hooks her shoes over her fingers. She grabs the keys.

At ten past the hour, Maka quietly closes the door behind her.

Gravel stings her bare feet as she gingerly crosses the parking lot to the car. It doesn't take long for her to unlock the door and toss her things into the passenger seat. In the cover of darkness, lit only by the motel's neon VACANCY sign, the car rumbles to life beneath her.

She can barely see through the tears streaming down her face, but she backs out of the parking lot and onto the road. She doesn't know which way she's heading, or even where she's going, but she doesn't care. It doesn't matter. She just needs to get _away_.

She tries not to think of Soul. She tries not to think of how, in just a few hours, he'll wake up and she won't be there. She tries to not think of how he'll think she was just using him, because that… that thought hurts most of all.

It wasn't fake. It was the realest thing she's known in a long time, and that's why she has to run. She hopes he doesn't blame her.

It's sad, and beautiful, and tragic.

When she finds the highway, she floors it. Shadows of scenery blur past, though Maka isn't sure how much of that is due to her tears. Saltwater drips onto the shiny fabric in her lap, marking time. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. At a stoplight, she sniffles and wipes her eyes. The back of her hand comes away black, her makeup smeared beyond repair.

She keeps driving.

Near dawn, when the sun is just beginning to crest over the horizon, she grabs the burner phone she and– and Soul– kept in the center console in case of emergency. Her tears have long since subsided, and she just feels… empty. Hollow.

She dials 911.

"Hello? Yes… I believe I just saw Soul– no, Solomon Evans. He's at a motel in…"

* * *

Maka takes a deep breath as she gazes up at the large colonial-style mansion looming before her. The stars twinkle in the sky above, sharp in the bitter cold of the night. Her exposed toes are starting to freeze in her strappy heels, and when she exhales, her breath crystallizes before her.

She debates turning around. She almost walks away.

Brushing invisible lint off her gold skirt, Maka carefully trots up the front steps to the doorman. She resists the urge to tuck a lock of loose hair behind her ear as she gives the man her name.

"Maka Albarn," she says.

The syllables of her own name trip awkwardly off her tongue. How long has it been since she's given a name that wasn't false? If it were up to her, she'd be using a false name here, too. She doesn't want him to know she's here. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But when she went to add her falsified name to the guest list for tonight, she found her real name already there.

Hiding her mounting anxiety beneath a smile, she checks her coat and follows the noise to the heart of the party. She finds a great room, smaller than the reception halls she's worked in the past, but magnificent in its own right. It's decked out in gold and black and silver decorations, though it's hard to see them around the sheer number of people attending the party.

The Evans Family New Year's Eve Party is, apparently, a big deal.

Maka lifts a wine glass from the refreshment table. If she's going to get through this night, she needs some alcohol in her system. What was she thinking, coming here? Did she really think this was a good idea?

It's been a long six months. After leaving Soul at the motel that night, she found a new crew. She ran more jobs than ever before. She threw herself into the work with abandon. It kept her busy. It gave her purpose. The few blissful weeks she had between the Lord Death job and the Gorgon job were all but forgotten.

She started to begin again.

Still, she couldn't forget entirely. She's haunted by red eyes and white-blond hair.

She's paid off her father's debts. She's settled things with her old crews. She has a steady job as a security consultant for Lord Death himself To her utmost surprise, it was the two women she threw under the bus all those months ago who got her the job. Liz and Patti are now her best friends, and the ones who convinced her to fly all the way out to Connecticut for this party tonight.

Maybe they're not her best friends anymore.

Maka parks herself in the corner of the room, surveying the crowd as she sips her wine. Her lipstick stains the rim of the glass. She's not hiding. Not here, not now.

She recognizes Soul's parents almost immediately. They're public figures, especially after the news coverage years ago about their son's disappearance and the more recent coverage about their son's miraculous return. The man standing apart from Soul's parents looks like Soul, but isn't. _Wes_, her mind supplies from the research she did before coming here. _Soul's older brother_.

A loud shout drags her attention to the other side of the room. A man with blue hair is hamming it up for an audience, and she knows without a doubt that it's Blake Starr, Soul's childhood friend. A tall Japanese woman looks on affectionately. Maka places her as Tsubaki Nakatsukasa, Blake's girlfriend.

She wonders if Tsubaki speaks Japanese. She hasn't had anyone to practice with since her mother left.

Maka immediately scolds herself for the thought. She doesn't… she doesn't fit in here. She doesn't belong. This isn't her place in this world. The glamour, the opulence– she's just playing a part. Beneath the veneer, she's still the poor apartment-bound daughter of a washed-up alcoholic. A thief. A criminal.

She knocks back the rest of the wine in her glass and exchanges the empty glass for a new one. She shouldn't have come. Soul is so much better off without her. Why did she ever allow herself to believe otherwise?

She'll make some excuse to Liz and Patti. The roads were too slick, she couldn't make it to the party. TSA lost her dress. Security escorted her out before she even set foot in the Evans' family home.

She's a liar and a coward. That much, however, won't be a lie.

Maka catches a glimpse of platinum hair and pale skin weaving through the crowd toward Blake and his antics. Her heart stops for a long moment, then kicks into double-time. He's there. He's _right there_ and it would be _so easy_ to walk over and say hello.

But then Soul laughs at something Blake says, and Maka knows she can't. He's happy, and that's… that's enough for her.

Later, she'll tell herself she had no way of knowing. Later, she'll justify lingering a moment too long with the fact she believed it was the last she'd ever see of Soul. Later, she'll wonder if what happens next is what she intended all along.

Soul looks up. Red eyes bore into hers, and the vulnerability that crosses his face breaks her heart. She smiles weakly.

A heartbeat passes before he smiles back at her– just as tentatively, just as hopefully.

There are still hours to go until midnight, but as Soul slowly makes his way toward her, she feels like she's already waking up on new year's day. She doesn't know what the future will hold, but she knows she won't regret it.

He stands before her, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Hey."

_Fin._


End file.
